If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em
by iamstormageddon
Summary: Katherine Pulitzer is an aspiring journalist in New York City. The newsies of Manhattan intrigue her, and she wants to write her first article about them. But in order to keep her story accurate, she's got to go undercover. Based on the musical! R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, guys! This is my first Newsies fanfic, based off the musical, not the movie (BTW, the musical is AMAZING). You don't have to get the musical in order to get this fic, though. :) Enjoy! Please R&R!**

"Sir, please!"

"No!"

"Sir…"

"No! No, no, no, I said no! That's my final word! No more compromising, Katherine!"

"Why not?"

He shakes his head for the millionth time. "Because it's unconventional! There aren't any women newspaper writers! It's not normal!"

"Just 'cause it's not normal doesn't mean it can't be done!"

"For God's sake, Katherine, you want to be a journalist, don't you? Use proper English! And I didn't say it can't be done, I just said that I'm not letting you!"

"Please!"

He slams his hand on the desk in frustration. "By thunder, Katherine! I said NO!"

"Please! You won't be sorry! It'll be the best thing you'll ever read! I promise!"

He doesn't move for a moment or two. He is just frozen in that look of confliction. Finally, his expression softens, and he sighs, defeated. "Fine. Write what you want and turn it in to me by Friday. And damnit, Katherine, it better be accurate! If you fabricate even a single fact in your draft, you're finished. Understand?"

I nod, so overjoyed that I start talking a hundred miles an hour. "Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir! I'll make you proud, I swear!" I shake his hand, gather my pad of paper and pen, and head for the door. Before I close it behind me, I look back at him. "You won't be sorry, Sir."

He rolls his eyes, just wanting me out of his office. "Yes, yes, I can only hope so. Remember, it's due on Friday. A full five-day span! If you become a real journalist, you'll have half a day!"

"Yes, Sir!"

I close the door behind me and walk briskly down the busy hallway crowded with editors and secretaries, smiling all the way. _Finally! A chance to prove myself! _If I know one thing to be true, it's that I, Katherine Pulitzer, will make my father proud of me.

**Thanks, guys! Review! I'll keep it coming! Hopefully.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, guys! Thanks to the people who reviewed the first chapter! Here's the second one, much more length and depth! Thanks guys! Read and Review! :)**

I stroll down 45th Street, humming to myself as I fiddle with the pencil in my hands. I've been searching the city for an hour trying to find inspiration for something worthy and interesting to write about. As I pass Mullany's Drugstore, I peer into the window display. Today it's a new book. I squint from the sidewalk to see the title. _Awakening _by Kate Choplin. Sounds interesting enough, but I haven't heard any buzz about it. I'll make it a distant possibility for my article due Friday. I keep walking.

My hair blows into my face, attacking me with brunette curls. I brush it out of my eyes and trying to find that spot where my hair parts in a straight line down my scalp. When it feels satisfactory, I survey the other side of the road. Same old buildings, same old streetcars, same old everything. I'm lost in my thoughts when suddenly, I run into someone going the opposite direction.

I look up, about to apologize, but no one's there. I look down, and it's a little boy. He's alarmingly filthy, with a dirt-scraped face and a ratty cap that barely contains his bright red hair. No older than 12, I'm guessing. He looks up at me with hopeful eyes. In his fist are several rolled-up newspapers.

"Mornin', miss," he says, with a genuine hint of enthusiasm in his voice. "Can I gets ya a copy of _The World_? Only a penny apiece."

I'm torn. Should I buy it? I don't need it. Hell, my father owns that newspaper. But on the other hand, he looks so hungry.

You see these children all the time around Manhattan. They call them "newsies." They have their own system for selling papers, and my father's company sells them a pack of a hundred papers for 50 cents. They stay out of the way, if you're a man. If you're a lady, they hound you, since they figure that the wives are more gullible than the husbands. I know perfectly well that they don't have to, because my father ensures that they get enough food, proper shelter, and clothing. At least, I hope he does. Looking at this oddly thin, poorly-dressed boy, I hope he does.

I sigh and look him in the eye. "Sorry, son. I already read it today." His face, so full of light five seconds ago, suddenly deflates like a balloon. He trudges away forlornly. I keep walking, hoping that no one saw me do that to the poor kid. But of course someone did. This is New York.

As I continue on my way, I pass the newsie lodging house. It's nothing more than a big wooden shack, like the tenements that the Russian and Polish immigrants live in. A few blankets hang over the entrance for decoration. As I pass, I see five raggedly-clad newsboys huddling in a group, talking. One kid lights a cigarette, and as he puts it to his mouth to take a drag, his eyes find mine.

He elbows his buddy next to him. When he's got his attention, he motions toward me with the butt of his cigarette. Then, they all turn and look at me. The one smoking says to the rest of the newsboys, "Well, she's a nice-lookin' dame, ain't she, fellas?"

The boy on his right nods and smiles, showing crooked teeth. "Sure is. I wonda' how much she would charge ya for a night, eh, Jack?"

I roll my eyes, walk faster, and try to ignore them. Suddenly, the kid named Jack calls out to me, "Hey, lil' missie, come on back. I gots somethin' to tell ya."

I know I shouldn't go back, but something compels me to do so anyway. When I reach them, I get a better look at all of them. The one called Jack is the second-tallest out of the five; the tallest one, who wears round spectacles, is very thin and very slender, as if you could snap him in half like a twig. "Crooked Teeth" is of average height with sandy corkscrew curls. The last two are definitely twins: light brown hair and green eyes, with a shower of freckles on their cheeks and noses. All of the boys wear a wide variety of wool vests and brightly-colored flannel undershirts. The only things that unite them in physical appearance are their tweed pants, suspenders, and floppy caps, the universal newsie uniform, all in various stages of wear and tear.

"So, yeah, I got somethin' to say to ya." Jack nods in my direction, talking with the cigarette in his mouth. I try not to gag from the smoke. "But it ain't a proper conversation without introducin' my comrades here first. I'm Jack. This here's Specs and Race," he says, gesturing both to the tall one and Crooked Teeth, "and those two there are Pick and Pocket." The twins give me simultaneous smiles, and I'm guessing they're nicknamed for their ability to steal.

"Specs, Race, Pick, Pocket, and Jack," I say, half to myself, half to Jack. "You have quite the interesting band of…comrades. If you don't mind so much as to make your point sometime soon, then I should be going now."

"Yeah, I was gonna ask what an uptight-lookin' girl like you's doing flounderin' round the newsie territory." His smirk makes me want to punch him.

"Uh-huh," says Pick. "And what's ya doin' with that fancy paper n' pen of yours?"

I glare at him. "I'm a journalist. At least, I'm getting tested to be a journalist. I have to write an article about something and submit it on Friday. I was just looking for some material to write my piece about."

Pocket grins. "Ooh! You can write about us!"

"Shut up, Pocket!" they all say in unison.

"Great idea!" I say. Already I can feel the cogs turning in my head. "Nobody ever gives two bits about the newsies that give them their papers every day! I can write about your daily lives, your regimes, and what you do for fun! Yes! A piece of news about the bringers of news! It's genius!"

They stare at me, surprised that I'm serious about it.

"Alright, little miss," says Jack with that irritating smirk. "I'll tell ya about the daily life of a newsie. But be warned…it's for strong stomachs only, ya hear?" The other boys chuckle mischeviously.

And so I stand there for at least a half-hour, hearing every detail about every newsie's day-to-day agenda. I learned some valuable pieces of information, but most of it was just completely uncalled for, inappropriate tidbits of the…er…_habits_ of the newsboys. After a while of hearing about this, jotting down interesting notes that one of the boys would interject during Jack's long speech. And then, he just stops.

"Well, that's it."

I look at him. "Really?"

With an impatient note to his words, as if the topic suddenly bores him to tears, he replies sharply, "Yep. Nothin' more to say. Come on, fellas, these papes ain't gonna sell 'emselves. Nice talking to ya, missie. Whadaya go by?"

"Katherine."

"Well, ain't that swell. See ya 'round, Katherine." And with that, they disappear, literally, out of thin air. I look up and down the streets, but they're gone.

Strange.

As I continue on my way that I should have been going on a long time ago, I skim over my notes. Seven whole pages. _Seven. _

Though, to tell the truth, I doubt even half of what Jack told me was true, judging by the constant laughter of the other four boys. _God, who can you trust anymore?_

I remember my father's strict words: "_And damnit, Katherine, it better be accurate! If you fabricate even a single fact in your draft, you're finished!"_

And suddenly, a spontaneous, awful, ridiculous, crazy, glorious idea forms in my mind. If I want the truth, I have to get it myself, firsthand. No middleman, just the cold, hard truth. If I want the facts, I have to live the facts.

I wonder if any dress stores around here would sell suspenders to a seventeen-year-old girl.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Howdy, friends! Thanks for the reviews/favorites/alerts! Love you all! Here's Chapter 3! REVIEW!**

I walk briskly down the sidewalk, my scalp itching furiously from all my hair being trapped inside the hat on my head. I pat the top of my head awkwardly in a vain attempt to stop the itching, but to no avail. Well, at least the hat fits alright.

After I came home from the secondhand shop yesterday afternoon, I spent at least an hour in my bedroom walking around in the boy's tweed pants and suspenders I had bought, to get a feel for them. They're heavy and bulky around my hips, but I pinned the bottoms to make sure they were the right length. I didn't bother trying on the vest or the plaid shirt because I knew they fit already; they were both my size.

Now, as I approach the newsie lodging house, I immediately know that this is a big mistake.

"Oi! Who's the kid with the stick-arms?"

"Hey, Sticks! Goin' to lift some barbells?"

Damn it. My arms are skinny as rails. God knows that I've never lifted a weight a day in my life. I'm a girl! Girls don't lift weights! They stay at home and do housework. Or, in my case, work on my typewriter. I turn around. "At least I'm not a lazy bum who should be selling papers!"

Wow. I don't know where that came from. I haven't really thought about how I should talk to the newsies, or how to sound like a male. But I guess my comeback worked, because I hear various catcalls and shouts of "Oh, he got ya good, Jack!"

Jack. That brown-haired boy from yesterday? Sure enough, when I move closer toward the familiar group of five newsies crowded near the entrance of the lodging house, I recognize Jack, the smoker. No cigarette today, just his pale-green eyes boring holes into my brown ones. I gasp quietly, and my knees almost give out. _What? _

This boy is arrogant, vulgar, rude, irritating, and incredibly handsome.

"You alright?" It's the first time I've ever heard Specs talk, and his voice is full of genuine concern.

I cough, trying to cover it up. "Yeah, I'm good." Damn it. I need a deeper voice.

Jack grins. "You come to join our comradery, Sticks?"

I nod. _Dear God, he is attractive, no matter what annoying nickname he wants to call me by. _

"Well then, ya best get over to the distribution center over that-a-way before they run outta papes."

"I could take you there!"

I look around the group, trying to detect the unfamiliar voice. It's only then that I realize there aren't five in the group, but seven. The speaker is a younger boy, maybe about fifteen. His dark hair frames his oval face well. The other addition can't be older then seven. He comes up to the other boy's mid-thigh, a big smile plastered on his tiny face. He has the same baby-blue eyes as the other boy, who I guess is his older brother.

As I try to decipher these things in my head, Jack interjects, "So, is ya gonna go or not?"

I snap out of my thoughts and look at the older boy. "I'm David, but they like to call me Davey," he says.

"And I'm Les!" pipes up the little boy.

Before I can stop myself, I exclaim down to Les, "My goodness, you are so _adorable!_"

They stare at me, and I realize what I had just said. I feel my face turn hot, and I bite my lip and look away.

Suddenly, after a bit of silence, Pocket says quietly, "…is you a puff, or somethin'?" Surprisingly, no one tells him to shut up.

"No!" I say, a little too loudly. I squeeze my eyes shut in embarassment. _God, Katherine, have some common sense! _

"Can you just take me to the distribution center?"

"Uh…yes, sure."

As we cross the street, Davey says nothing. Finally, he asks, "So, where are you from?" He speaks the best English out of all of the newsies, with the tiniest trace of a street accent on him.

"Uptown." At least it's the truth.

"That's swell…I guess. I'm right around the corner, but my dad just got laid off. Me and Les are trying to help make ends meet for our family."

"Oh. I'm real sorry 'bout that."

"'Sokay."

When we reach the distribution center, it's deserted. "Looks like they're outta papers."

"So…what do I do?"

"I dunno…go back to the lodging house? Take a nap, or something. You got a house of your own?"

"Yeah."

"That's nice. Lots of these guys don't got folks. Jack Kelley's parents passed on his fourth birthday, and legend says he was selling papes by the time he was four and one month. I'm real lucky for Les and Sarah."

"Sarah?"

"My older sister. She's nineteen. I'm sixteen."

"That's nice," I reply, echoing his words. Jack Kelley sounds like a really independent guy. My thoughts travel to him.

He looks at me, breaking my daydreams. "Well, I guess that's about all I can do for you. See you around, uh…"

I haven't previously thought of a fake name for male self, so I tell him, "I guess you can call me Sticks. I kinda like it."

"Alright, Sticks. See ya."

"'Kay."

As he walks away, I know two things. One, there's a lot more to this job then I previously thought. And, two, I'm going to have a very hard time getting my mind off of Jack Kelley.

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